


That Voice

by 401



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Returns, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-21 12:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6052324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is finding himself and it is scarier than he thought. He finds Steve, but can he extinguish what is left inside him of Hydra?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man with The Shield

Bucky was sure that Washington was growing every day. When he thought he had covered all of the self-marked quadrants of bustling metropolis that he could see from any given rooftop, there was more. Another alleyway, another park. Something untouched and un-scoured for sighs of the man with the shield.

_You’re losing your edge._

Bucky shook that critical voice out of the back of his head with another deep swallow of gas station whiskey. It had grown, the voice. Since he had left Hydra he had been blessed (or cursed) with a whole new clarity, not dulled and hazed with electricity and sedatives. Autonomy. He hated it.

_You’re gonna’ fail this mark._

Bucky flung the empty whiskey bottle against the opposite wall of the alleyway he was resting in, half-smiling in satisfaction as it hit the bricks, covering the concrete in front in shards of glass. He stood from the crate he was sitting on and found that he was much more steady than he should be after that much alcohol in so little time.

_Super-serum, you never fail to surprise me._

He started again, digging out the small photo he had folded in the pocket of his combats. The man with the shield, leaving some sort of store. He was smiling at another man, African-American, stocky, about 5’9”. He didn’t have the shield there. In fact, he looked quite different from the man that Bucky had encountered months ago on the freeway, surrounded by smoke with focus in his eyes and blood on his face. He preferred the man in the photo. He looked happy.

_You’re weak. You’re soft and weak._

Bucky frowned at the photograph and shoved it back into his pocket, walking out onto the brighter, but still dark main road. He guessed 2 am, based on the half-light and bird song, but he couldn’t be sure. His watch had seen better days. The face was crushed and one hand was missing.

_Just like you._

Bucky actually smiled at the voice this time, pulling off the watch and tossing it into a dumpster behind a deli. He had seen the man with the shield once since he had set off, but he had turned into the SHIELD headquarters almost immediately afterwards and that was not a risk Bucky was willing to take. As far as he knew, he was ‘kill on sight’.

_Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad._

Bucky stopped smiling. He stopped walking. The change in mood came like a kick in the gut that no amount of Kevlar was going to cushion. He questioned it (like everything else). No family, no friends no responsibilities. Just vast expanses of unfamiliar city, crippling nightmares, a colourful list of things to feel guilty for, a headache and one final mark.

_One final mark who says that he knows you._

The image flicked through Bucky’s frontal lobe like a seizure. The man. Rogers. Steve Rogers. It had taken him long enough to piece that name together in his head, scrambling through shards of ‘almost’ memories. Now it was coming, and it was coming fast in vivid technicolour.

_“That boy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to say no to a fight? I’m following him.”_

Bucky opened his eyes when he felt wet tarmac under his palms. He couldn’t remember falling, but he decided that being on his knees in the middle of the empty road in the middle of the night was not sensible. The streetlamps spilled their yellow light in oily puddles on the wet ground. He ignored the uneasy framed of memory still plastered behind his eyes and picked up his pace. A sound rocked his reverie and caught his attention. A low growl of an engine, close enough to be uncomfortably loud but not visible. Bucky sprinted, climbing onto the roof of the bookstore next to him in a few executed movements, rolling behind the air-conditioning unit to better figure out the direction of the noise.

It stopped abruptly, like it had heard his pursuit and the low hum of the motor was replaced with shuffling and movement, then one very familiar sound; a deep metallic clatter, full of odd vibration.

“Dammit!” The owner of the motorcycle hissed.

Bucky vaulted over the air unit and to the edge of the other side of the rooftop and peered over. He caught the edge of something round and metallic and a glimpse of golden hair.

_Bingo. One last mark._

###

Steve rubbed the edge of the shield clean with his sleeve and put it on the holster on his back. he stuffed the keys for his motorcycle in his pocket and unlocked his door. The move had been a good idea. Steve had always prided himself of rationality, but every time he had walked into his old apartment, his head had flooded with pictures he didn’t want to see. This new place was directly above a book store (a plus) and a coffee house (bigger plus) Now, the memories were a little bit further from his mind and he could focus his energy a little more. All of his energy, for that matter. It was night three of deciding that finding Bucky Barnes, master of disappearing into thin air, was more important than sleep. Steve rubbed his eyes as he stepped one foot inside the hall.

 

Movement. Steve stepped back out slowly and was met with a flooring blow to the back of the head, followed by strong fingers at his throat. Cold and metallic.

“Bucky… let go,” Steve choked out.

His arms were stuck behind him, wedged between his back and the shield which was pressed firmly against the brick wall.

“I need to finish this,” Bucky said quietly, more to himself than Steve.

“No…” Steve whispered, feeling his vision grey at the edges.

_NO!_

The voice pulled Bucky straight, dropping Steve in a heap on the sidewalk. The Captain rubbed his throat and took a few sore breaths.

“I’m…” Bucky rubbed his face with trembling hands, “I can’t…”

Steve shook his head, letting it lull back against the brick wall behind him, stretching his legs out in front of him on the pavement.

“You don’t have to,” He panted, patting the space next to him for Bucky to sit, “Let’s talk.”

 


	2. A hand to Hold

So they sat on the slightly damp sidewalk in the relative enclosure of Steve’s doorway. It was slightly more comfortable this way, Bucky thought, no commitment to the conversation; he could leave at any point. The night seemed to have quietened around them, hushing in anticipation of their words. It made Bucky uncomfortable, hearing his own heartbeat in his ears, his breathing and the occasional shuffle of Steve’s clothes. The encounter was thrown into hyper-reality that made it all the more daunting.

_This is happening. This is real._

“Please tell me you haven’t been in DC this entire time, Buck,” Steve sighed, “Because that really says something about my search and rescue skills.”

Bucky nodded tentatively, struck with an odd urge to protect the Captains pride and feelings. It came out of nowhere, somewhere deep beyond the limits of his instincts and personality that Bucky usually did his best not to venture past. Anything past those limits was scary and unknown.

“I stayed real low,” Bucky mumbled, “I wouldn’t have expected anyone to find me.”

Steve frowned and reached out to squeeze Bucky’s hand, withdrawing quickly when he caught his forwardness. Bucky had just reached out to him the only way he knew how; by trying to kill him. Maybe now was not the best time.

“I’ve missed you, Bucky,” Steve whispered, looking at his hands and furrowing his brow, “I’ve missed you for years, but now it’s unbearable.”

Bucky tilted his head to get a better look at the Captain’s face, half-illuminated by a nearby streetlamp. His eyelashes were long enough that when his eyes were lowered like this they brushed his cheeks like feathers. They looked damp but Bucky could not be sure.

 _“Stevie, how do you expect me to resist you when you’ got eyes like that?”_  
  


The sound of his own voice in his head jarred him, an unwelcome but strangely comforting intrusion of his own thoughts. He remembered that feeling. Something telling him he was not allowed but absolutely needed to, a feeling that he loved and was terrified of. He remembered nights where just Steve’s voice would roll like hot water over his skin and leave him flushed and desperate. It had not scared him this much back then, but now his heart was picking up speed and mouth was drying up. He judged the Captain’s distance. He could run if he wanted too.

Or he could make sure he never needed to run again.

Bucky reached out slowly and laid and upturned hand, the metal one, on the Captain’s lap. Steve looked at it, then back at Bucky who gave a shy smile that Steve hadn’t expected to see. He took Bucky’s hand in his and held it, smiling in surprise as the metal fingers curled around his and squeezed gently, more like Bucky was comforting _him_ than the other way around. The metal was cool and reassuring, familiar even though Steve had never felt it this closely before now. There was life behind the metal panels, a thrumming vibration that was following what Steve assumed was Bucky’s pulse.

“Can I stay, Steve?” Bucky asked quietly, so low that his voice could barely cut the scratch in his throat, “I don’t want to leave you again.”

Steve smiled and turned to Bucky.

“Do you really need to ask, Buck?”


End file.
